


The Hunter's Nightmare

by werelupewoods



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Neopets
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, M/M, like what a strange combination i'm sorry my mind is a mess, not sure what additional tags to write but i'm laughing at the fact this is neopets/bloodborne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-31 09:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10896933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: You, lost in the shadows of an unknown world, struggle to find your purpose; but it isn't until you meet an odd, hopeless stranger that your journey truly begins.A series based on a very odd dream that I've had twice now, involving a few of Jammy's wonderful OCs.





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jammy/gifts).



> I just wanna say before we dive into this hellhole that **all main characters** _(except for you, the reader, of course,)_ **belong to Jammy**. That being said though, since this is based on a strange dream, they're all _incredibly_ OOC at times. This is all set in a bizarre alternate timeline, so, uh... yeah, that's all ;w;

You can’t open your eyes.

No matter how hard you try, you just can’t.

The pressure of the darkness that hangs above; the static of the stars that dance across your corneas; the crippling weight of whatever dream you’ve just awoken into — it’s all left you frozen. Something dwelling in the core of your mind fears what you may see if you stir — fears whoever may come to speak to you, or to crucify you — but still, you try to look.

You try, but all you see is piano black.

Your eyelids remain shut.

Concrete.

Dead.

Something nestled deep within your mind tells the rest of you that this world isn’t real, but another, louder, more desperate force tells you that it _is_ , and that it is all that you’ll ever know anymore. You’re too wounded by the weight of these thoughts to be unmoved, yet still too stunned to be scared. Your entire mind and body and soul feel muted by the realisation that you are, somehow, by some standards, “alive,” but the context of this not-quite-a-life has left your everything crushed and confused. Your beliefs about this cold world have all been obliterated. Everything you thought you knew, dismembered. Desecrated. Defiled. Dead.

Your fluttering heart. Your shallow breathing. The warring images in your head of the life you thought you knew so well and the mystery of whatever Hell you’ve just awoken into; the rising hope, then the crashing defeat; the aching acceptance, then the crippling denial; everything surrounding you — all that’s inside and out — _everything_ here is just...

Dead.

Or maybe not.

You try to inhale, but you immediately choke on the taste of copper gilding your tongue. You feel yourself drowning in a lake of your own displaced scarlet — try to spit, then to inhale again, but your entire chest feels flooded with red. Submerged in blood. Smothered by emotions. Asphyxiated. Suffocated. Dead.

You try to move, but you can’t feel your body — not yet, at least. You feel numb. Static. Paralysed. Dead.

And so you lie here. You lie here helpless, kept company only by the smell of haemorrhaging wounds and the shimmering of the moon’s dancing beams. You can hear your heart struggling to stay alive within your chest, its dying pulse boring into your ears and throat. When you inhale, you feel the liquid in your lungs ripple. You feel the wounds in your gut yawning. You feel sweat and blood clinging to the skin of your shivering limbs. Everything is wrong. Everything is broken. Everything is just...

Dead.

Everything, except for the determined warmth in your eyes.

Everything, except for your desire to fight.

Everything, except for you.

And so you fight. You fight with the weight that’s crushing your chest and with whatever is keeping your legs paralysed. You fight with the numb, static tingling in your fingertips and with the convulsions of your torn, spasming muscles. You fight with the part of your brain that screams at you to give up and let go, instead turning your focus towards the sky. You can feel the bloodred moon watching over you, pitiless as it weighs your worth. You can feel the wind lazily lifting and lowering your coattails in its gentle hands. You can taste the staleness of decay on your tongue, stinging like bile in your throat. But most of all, in the distance, somewhere far off behind you, you can just barely hear... a prayer...?

Eventually — regretfully — the haze in your head begins to clear, and though you can hear again, the sounds are submerged beneath the pressure of looming death. Still, you can hear church bells chiming wearily in the distance, rousing whatever beasts slumber beneath their spires. You can hear the branches of the trees conversing in whispers with the delicate breezes above. You can hear someone, somewhere, softly muttering in half-metred phrases, their voice as beautiful as the sun that no longer shines. You can barely make out any of their words, but someone is there. _Someone_ is. _Who?_

Curiosity begs you to move once again, but when you finally submit, you regret it. When you shift, you can feel your destroyed body bending and breaking from beneath your own weight. It’s a bittersweet realisation: finally, you can feel again, but all that is there is pain. It’s overwhelming. You want to scream. You want to die. You start to panic... but you refuse to give up.

And so, again, you inhale.

And so, again, you choke.

And so, again, you try to move.

Until, finally, you find that you are able to turn over.

So very, very slightly.

The church bells in the distance have chimed out past twelve by the time you can feel all your limbs. The sounds of howling beasts before you and the desperate prayers behind all seem so absolute, but you refuse to dwell in this moment, lest you be consumed by the streets. Your thoughts begin to stir alive as another chill wind tangles your hair, and when you count to three, and you try to think of a solution... you remember the blood vials fastened to your hip.

Right.

Now you have a mission.

Now you have a purpose.

All you must do is find the energy to shift, and to reach, and to heal.

But it’s still just so, so difficult — the desperate part of your brain trying to convince the hopeless part to survive. You’re still not sure why you’re here at all, or what you want, or what you’re supposed to do; but... well, you’ll never get far enough to even _ask_ unless you heal your wounds. This is the only thing you know to be truth. That is all that’s real in this world.

And so you force yourself to move; and you feel the weight of your muscles straining your splintering bones, and the sloshing of the loose liquid in your gut, and every breeze and falling leaf like serrated blades across your skin... But still, you shift, and you turn, and you reach for your hip, and when your trembling fingers finally grasp the coolness of a bottle’s neck, that familiar, comforting texture of the terribly thick glass is enough to convince the entirety of your core to survive.

It takes too much effort, and far too much time, but finally — thankfully — you do it.

Despite the fact that everything within you feels like shards of glass, you shatter the vial, and you infuse the blood with your own — blink slow, breathe deep, and then finally...

_Finally..._

You exhale calm.

Pause.

Completely exhausted from this one simple task, you just lie on your side and revel in the warmth of your skin knitting itself back together. You embrace every second spent feeling the seeping wounds in your gut closing and your veins filling with fresh blood. You bask in the chill of the air that no longer stings, but rather cradles you softly in its palms.

When the infusion is complete, and your body is intact, you relax your mind and slowly sit up. Trembling from the pain’s lingering residue, you hug your legs to your chest, rest your chin on your knees, then close your eyes to just... breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Hold...

Exhale.

When you finally open your eyes to the world around you, you’re surprised to see that it looks somehow... familiar... though you know you’ve never been here before. The cobblestone streets that have held you since you first awoke are empty and lined with boarded-up buildings — some structures in shambles, others strangely intact, but all filled with pained mutterings and sobs. The sky above you is rust, filled with the shadows of black clouds, and the moon paints the world in scarlet. Carrion-starved beasts sit perched upon the naked limbs of trees, ripping innards from fresh kills that dangle so disgracefully from what once were great willows and elms. Each shadow seems living, and each body seems dead; every sound is haunting — screeching and scratching — except for...

_“Huic ergo parce, Deus, and let the light of his soul guide me home.”_

Just like the world around you, the voice is both familiar and not...

And it’s all you can focus on in this moment.

_“Let this fire from within — my love for him — guide me, as Your hand, to his side.”_

Your body still aches with the ghost of the infusion — the bruise-like pressure of diluted blood mingling with the weight of your own — but you still find yourself feeling drawn to the sound. It’s calling to you, though you know not who it is, nor the reason why they pray... but you listen.

_“Let the beacon of his love — like the seeds You once sowed, and like the wheat You once reaped — be golden._

_“Let the seas of blood part, and let the winds of ash quell, and let Your light guide my love, suppliant, home.”_

Something about the tone of this soft-timbred tenor seems to be giving you strength — or, at the very least, hope. Confused, you begin to look for the source, but the voice seems to be ringing from everywhere all at once — its desperate echo filling the streets. All you know for certain is that it’s coming from behind you, and you need to — you just _need_ to — find its host.

_“Supplicanti parce, Deus, for I genuflect to Your right hand...”_

When you finally convince yourself to stand, you nearly regret the notion... from embarrassment. You wobble for a few seconds like a springtime fawn, clumsy within your newly reconstructed body, though you quickly — thankfully — find your footing again.

“ _Agnus Dei, I pray, let his blade not betray him, and let his sight not terrorise his dreams.”_

It takes two or three tries for you to fully remember how to walk, but once your muscle memory has returned, and your feet steady on the uneven ground, your strides immediately become desperate and wide. Without really realising it, you’re suddenly running, as if afraid the voice will hush before you reach it.

_“Let him know this path that my love and Your light paint these barren grounds gold in, and shudder._

_“Let his mind remain sharp, and let his blade remain strong, until I find my way back to his arms.”_

The once-sheltering moon whose beams fall upon your shoulders suddenly stands as a witness to your spying. You _would_ feel guilty from the pressure of its light if you weren’t so desperate for the truth. In a world so cruel as the one you’ve found yourself in, the sound of this loving voice is the closest thing to true warmth that you worry you may ever feel again. You long to at least see the silhouette of the stranger whose voice now resonates throughout you. Be they an enemy, or be they a God, you simply wish to know their face.

_“Absolve, Domine, for I know I have sinned, and the blood of my temple runs black...”_

Your every footfall makes unpleasant squelching sounds as you crush the entrails of dead beasts, but none of the stenches of rot or disease can break your concentration in this moment.

Eventually, after a few century-long seconds of running and panting, you find that you’re being ushered by prayer towards the shadow of a moonlit cathedral.

_“But I come to Thee in my hour of need to beg of You, shame-faced, to guide me home.”_

It seems almost painfully pristine — the shining white walls of this sacred structure, still somehow standing proud despite the world decaying around it. Though its spires do crumble at their highest peaks, and though the roof has caved in beneath the weight of past rains, and though the moon tries its best to paint the structure in its ominous red, it still shines as bright as the stars.

_“I pray, suppliant, and cowering in fear, that you spare him the wrath of this world.”_

The church is your destination.

It’s where all answers will be found.

You can feel this in the depths of your heart.

_“Let not the blood take him, and let not the beasts slay him, but guide me, with Your light, to his side.”_

You run, and you run, and you run even more until you finally reach the façade. As your fingers brush the splintering wood of the doors to the cathedral, there’s a hush. For a second or so, the praying stops, and you worry that your presence is why...

But as you inch ever closer to the sanctuary nestled in the heart of this building, you can hear in its place... weeping.

It’s the same voice’s sound — you know that for certain — but for some reason, _this_ feels more sinful to interrupt.

And so you slow your steps, and you try your best to tread silent, and you hold your breath as you finally reach the sanctuary’s fog-obscured threshold.

You hear the voice tremble.

Then you hear it exhale.

Then, as you finally peek through the mist, you see him.

_“Huic ergo parce, Deus, from the fires of this Hell we call home.”_

Shuddering before an altar that’s strewn with dead roses kneels the figure of a tall blond Gelert, clad in the robes of the Holy Order, and with his tousled hair tangled around his ears. His back is facing towards you, and though you can’t tell his power, and though you can’t tell his age, you just _know_ that whatever love he prays for is old and strong. You can feel it in the way his voice’s candour fills your lungs. You can see it in the way his shoulders heave between words.

_“Let my sight remain true, and my resolve steadfast, as I search these cruel streets for my love.”_

Despite the fact that this mysterious Gelert seeps great power from every pore, your compulsion to learn still has your better judgement held smothered, and you find yourself compelled to proceed.

The next thing you know, you’ve just entered through the mysterious fog that sheltered this room from the rest of the temple.

Now it’s just you and him — alone.

You’re not sure yet what your motives are.

You’re not sure yet what you want to do.

But you walk ever closer, ever slowly, and ever calm, as silent as the stained glass beneath your feet will allow.

The Gelert pauses in his prayer, inhales a shaking breath, lifts his gaze towards the moon, and then stands.

His plea is desperate enough that you feel its weight in your chest:

_“As the blood consumes the sky, and as the beasts consume the weak... let him remain safe from their jaws._

_“As I begin my journey through these wretched streets..._

_“Please..._

_“Keep my love safe..._

_“Ame—”_

But his last syllable is cut short as a gasp tears from his throat, then he spins around to face you in terror. One carelessly loud footstep upon a shard of broken glass had rung clear through the entirety of the hall. Its sound was loud enough that even you yourself cringed, and it alerted him to your presence at once.

It’s here and now, seeing his eyes for the first time, that you know that you don’t stand a chance.

You didn’t realise that you’d drawn your burial blade until he’s already prepared to fight.

 


	2. The Overture

Perhaps the question you should be asking yourself isn’t, _Why did I draw my weapon?_ but rather, _Where the hell did I get a weapon to begin with?_

Or, perhaps, you realise once you’ve snapped the blade onto the snath, you should be asking, _How the hell do I know how to use it?_

The lithe blond Gelert who stands across the cathedral floor lifts his golden chime staff into his hands and mirrors your threatening posture, and when you see just how confident he looks despite his obvious surprise, you find that the only question you _can_ ask yourself is, _Why do I feel so compelled to fight?_

You know that you don’t stand a chance against him. You can feel it in the pit of your gut, and in the sweat on your palms, and in the way your steps fall clumsy the very second that you begin a sudden, ruthless charge towards him. You know it when you see just how calmly he stands before you despite the bloodlust that you’re certain must be clear in your eyes. You know it in the way that he simply closes his eyes as you approach in a sprint, then effortlessly ducks sharply to his left. You know it by the fact that this one simple move keeps him from being touched at all by your blade.

You know it, but you can’t seem to stop.

Before you can even fully process the fact that your swing has missed, you feel your legs collapse beneath you as he strikes you hard in the fossa of your knees. You can hear yourself grunting, and you’re surprised that nothing has been severed, and you’re _astounded_ that your instinct despite all of this is to keep moving. The very second that your knees hit the ground, your grip on your scythe tightens, and you pivot — swing the blade with all of your might, turn to face him, and then stand shakily once again.

He somehow predicted your move, though, and seemingly before you yourself had even considered it. The way he so casually leaps over your scythe’s blade is honestly infuriating, and the fact that you oh-so-slightly lose your balance once your swing’s completely followed through doesn’t help you feel any better about the flow of this fight. On your feet once again, though still stumbling back from strained veins, your panic triples when you’re suddenly aware of the fact that, even at your fullest height, he towers over you... but this also adrenalises you more. The confusion and terror in your gut is quickly boiling down to a pure will to survive, and it fuels you just enough so that when he lifts his staff as if to impale you where you stand, you somehow manage to roll nimbly — though just barely in time — out of the way.

The bells’ delicate chime is drowned out by the sound of the spear-tipped gold striking the shattered glass on the floor, and the clang rings clear enough throughout these crumbling cathedral walls to make you grind your teeth as your head spins. Your steps once again fall clumsy at first, though you’ve somehow landed back on your feet. After just two more shallow, stinging breaths, you spin around, find your footing, strengthen your grip, and then swing.

In sudden retrospect, honestly, it almost seems as if the thrust of his staff was less meant to attack you and more to get himself out of your blade’s future periphery. In the same fluid motion as his initial strike, he kneels down, then spins to once again knock your legs out from beneath you. Your blade glides gently over his head as you feel his staff strike the tendons of your heels. You’re surprised that the muscles don’t instantly snap from the impact. You’re surprised by how quickly he outsmarted you again. Once more, you’re forced to your knees from the pain of future bruising, but you refuse to let this stop you. You have no idea where he is, and you have no idea where he’s moving, but you _do_ know that he’s _somewhere_ and that, if you don’t do _something_ , he’ll kill you.

So you pivot on your knees once again — it’s the only thing you really _can_ do. You can feel the shattered glass on the floor tearing through your clothing and embedding itself in your flesh, but you know that the pain you feel now is a simple toll to pay to avoid the threat of impalement. You commit to the strike, holding your scythe at the farthest length you can, and you _finally_ catch him off guard...

Or so you think.

His golden eyes widen in a bit of panic when he sees you attacking once more, but... he doesn’t move. Instead of ducking away from your scythe’s swing, or leaping over your too-low attack, he simply widens his stance, plants his heels firmly into the ground, and waits for the now-inevitable impact. Though your _blade_ misses his ankles, the snath collides painfully and audibly with the side of his calf. He takes in a sharp breath, and he wobbles from the force, and you can see him tremble in pain...

But you realise all too late that this is exactly what he had wanted to happen.

In the same split second that you land your first hit, your grip on your weapon loosens. Having the swing stopped so short causes your fingers to slip, and the rest of the momentum sends you fully to the ground. You’re a bit frustrated by the fact that your initial response is to feel embarrassed rather than desperate to recover, but once you look back up towards him, and you see him lifting his staff once again, your every hunter’s instinct comes flooding back. You refuse to stop moving, despite the glass in your palms, and despite the fire in his eyes, and despite the pain of your breathing. You somehow manage to grab a weak hold on your scythe and then tumble out of his line of fire.

The delicate song from the chimes on his staff is almost taunting in the way it accompanies your flailing. It’s distracting as all hell, but still, somehow, you manage to regain your lost grip and scramble to your feet. And so, once again, the tip of his staff collides with nothing but the glass on the ground. For the first time, it seems as though the both of you know that you’re about to draw first blood.

But then he does something you’re not sure why you didn’t expect.

Rather than leap back or away from the blade you’ve just raised to swing, he again simply strengthens his posture, then drives the speared tip of his staff as far into the crumbling concrete as he can. Time altogether seems to slow as, remarkably, a sudden halo of white light begins to encircle him, shining bright enough that you’re blinded and mesmerised all at once, and forced to stumble back from its intensity.

You’re not sure what he’s doing, but you refuse to let it stop you, so you follow through with your swing and hope for the best.

But the best was never destined to come.

You should have known that from the start.

Your entire field of vision goes completely white, then you’re immediately sent skidding across the floor by some strange aura of heat. It doesn’t burn you, nor sting, nor does it draw any blood, but it splits your burial blade back into two useless components, then tosses you and your destroyed weapon across the cathedral floor — scatters a cloud of dust and glass and debris into the air that blinds you and makes you choke.

As your ribcage collides painfully with one of the stone pillars against the far wall, you’re almost certain that all that awaits you now is death. You wish that you could say that you’ve lived a good life, but you honestly can’t remember if you have.

But you refuse to give up — you just adamantly _refuse_. You can taste blood on your tongue from the glass dust on your lips, and your limbs feel like they’ve all been dismembered, but you tense all your muscles, and you roll back onto your knees, and then, coughing and wheezing, you squint your eyes to search for wherever he’s gone.

Strangely enough, it seems as though he’s completely disappeared, for he’s nowhere within your immediate eyeshot. At first, this strikes you as a blessing in disguise, for his disappearance would mean that you have a chance to escape...

But you quickly realise that... no, no, that just _can’t_ be the case. He must be planning something. Something cruel. Something deadly.

You honestly didn’t think that your panic could get any worse, but the inability to find his shadow _anywhere_ sends another surge of adrenaline through your veins. Still coughing and panting, and with your face now streaked with bloody tears and drool, you somehow — _somehow_ — get back on your feet.

As the dust settles around you, you begin another frantic search, your eyes stinging from everything that’s been thrown into the air.

You turn in every wrong direction, and only at the very last second do you spin around to find him right behind you.

Once again, his stature alone is enough to make your stomach flip and cause your lungs to collapse from panic. You didn’t _think_ that you’d been on the ground for too terribly long, but you must have been unconscious for a while. Your collapse somehow granted him enough time for him to not only make it to your side, but also to gather the two halves of your weapon and gently holster them to the cloth ties around his waist. There’s absolutely no way you have the time or energy to avoid his chime staff’s next swing. Despite your desire to fight, and despite your will to live, you simply wait for him to impale you through your gut.

But he doesn’t.

Though... you’re really not sure if that’s a good thing.

Before you even have time to process what’s happening, you feel him strike you across your knees. It’s a painfully embarrassing déjà vu in the way you’re so instantly sent to the ground. This time, however, you’re too weak to stand, and your weapon has been lost, and you’re hopeless. All you can focus on is one loud, worried thought: _What the hell is he going to do to me?_

When you feel your limp, broken self being kicked onto your back, you’re suddenly praying for death. Though the loudest, most terrified part of you wants nothing more than to drown in the blackness of your eyelids, you force your eyes open, and you look up to meet his, and the sombre, silent expression on his face makes you immediately realise that...

Oh.

He was... never actually trying to kill you.

He was simply trying to render you immobile.

But you can’t find solace in this realisation, for the very second that you meet his gaze, he quickly and relentlessly lifts his staff, then pins your left hand, stigmata, to the ground. You can feel your scream tearing at your throat more than you can hear it, and your entire arm convulses with the pain of severed tendons. Leaning his weight upon the gold that’s now pierced through your palm, he firmly plants one foot on your free wrist, then the other square over your diaphragm, and stands still.

You’re completely immobilised — pinned shamefully to the ground.

Honestly, you almost wish that he _would_ just kill you.

But no, he won’t — there was no murder in his eyes.

Instead, he just stands there, and waits.

And you _know_ that he’s waiting — you can tell that’s his intent. You can hear him toying with the chimes of his staff, as if to soothe both of your minds with their delicate song, and you can hear him breathing deep despite the groaning in your throat, and when you finally force your eyes open again, you can see him simply... looking. Watching you. Examining you. Studying you. Not as a beast sizing up its next kill, but rather... almost like a parent, waiting for their child to finish a tantrum. He looks... disappointed.

Despite everything that’s just happened, something about his tranquil — yet still painfully passive — expression is calming enough that you feel safe in stopping your writhing. Your every twitching muscle is demanding that you squirm, and your lungs still ache with snuffed screams, but you force yourself to hold still and ignore the fact that the entirety of your body is telling you to struggle. You bite your torn lips to keep them from quivering, and you breathe as deeply through your bloody nose as you can, keeping your eyes centred solely on his as if to submit through sight alone.

He seems to understand your silent surrender, though he doesn’t let you go just yet. He allows you a few more seconds to gather what few pieces of yourself remain unshattered; then, when you finally manage to completely fill your lungs with fresh breath, upon your first true exhale, he speaks: “Why did you come here, hunter?”

His voice, too, is strangely calming despite all that’s been happening between you. Upon hearing it again, you’re suddenly reminded of how you ended up in this place: this very same voice that now speaks to you so softly leading you here with desperate prayers.

You’ve honestly almost forgotten how to speak, but he remains ever patient, and waits. After a dozen more still only half-full breaths, you unclench your jaw and decide... to tell the truth. “I have no idea.”

You’re surprised that you’re still able to talk through all that’s happened, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer. Still, he doesn’t prod or press the question through words, but rather gives you the same patient, exhausted expression, as if urging you to continue.

And something about the way his eyes still sparkle like the sun despite everything encourages you to do just that. “I heard a voice,” you begin to explain through bated breaths. “It was y—... y-your voice, praying, and... and I grew curious.”

Again, at first, he remains ever silent; but then you see his lips twitch into a bit of a scowl. He lets out one short, half-huffed breath in response — the closest thing to a scoff it seems like he can manage. “So you hear a man praying, then you seek him out to _attack_ him...?” he questions, his tone somehow remaining just as flat and impassive as before, though you just _know_ that he’s judging your morality.

And you honestly don’t know how to respond to the question, because even _you_ still aren’t sure why the hell you did that to begin with. “It... wasn’t my intent,” you then hear yourself saying, though you immediately realise just how stupid that excuse must sound considering _you_ were the one who traversed the fog, and drew your weapon, and attempted to strike first.

But his reactions only continue to surprise you, for he almost immediately accepts this as truth. You don’t know if it’s simply because he’s a very trusting man, or whether he can read your mind; but whatever it is, it’s currently keeping you alive, and you hope that it stays that way.

He takes another deep breath, as if to centre his thoughts, then you feel him gently twist his staff. The chimes ring clear over your reflexive hiss of pain as your mangled hand is further destroyed. At the same time, though, he steps off of your chest, though he still keeps both of your arms pinned to the ground. “What is your purpose here, hunter?” he then asks you softly, still looking completely unfazed.

You really, truly wish that you could give him a confident answer, but still, the only one you have to offer is, “I have no idea.”

Again, he breathes deep. Again, he absentmindedly twists his staff. Again, you hiss in pain. Again, he speaks down to you like a frustrated parent: “So you are lost; is that it?”

You still really aren’t quite sure, but nevertheless, you find yourself speaking the words, “I... suppose you could say that — yes.”

A pause. Another breath. Another ring of the chimes. Then, “So you are simply trying to find your place in this world. Is that correct, hunter?”

You didn’t realise it until just now, but... that actually sounds about right. “I... suppose so, yes,” you say, though your tone is beyond apprehensive. “I... I don’t know how I came here, or what my purpose is, but...” You try to swallow, but you choke on the dust that you’d forgotten was clogging your throat. You try to suppress your coughing, but it hardly works. Now you’re just writhing and panting pathetically beneath him.

But he doesn’t force you to speak any further. Rather, he completes your thought for you: “But you are seeking an explanation, and a reason for your being here. Is that correct, hunter?”

Still choking and wheezing, you simply nod in response.

A few more painfully long seconds of his eyes boring into your mind pass like hours as you wait for him to decide your fate. You’re beyond surprised when, despite everything you’ve just done to him, and despite your pitiful lack of knowledge, he still decides to release you. He steps off of your wrist, circles around behind your head, then, after placing one foot down to hold your other arm in place, violently yanks his staff free from your palm.

You scream once again as your muscles tear and blood begins to spurt from the wound, but in the very same second that your uninjured hand begins to travel to the blood vials at your hip, you see him kneel down beside you, lay his staff on the ground, and then take your hand into his own. Confused to the point of hushed bewilderment, you watch as he lowers his head and holds your fingers closed into a gentle fist... then his palms alight in a serene, golden glow. Placing his hands and their magical aura softly around yours, the twitching of torn muscles begins to quell as the wound in your palm heals closed. You can feel fresh blood filling your exsanguinated fingertips. You can flex the muscles of your wrist.

Despite yourself, your mouth moves without your mind’s consent, and you ask the stupid question: “You’re... healing me?”

His eyes flutter just the slightest bit open, though he doesn’t lift his gaze, instead remaining focused on his silent spellcasting. “Blood vials are scarce in this land, hunter,” he says calmly, unfolding your fingers to make sure that your wound has been completely mended. “You must use them sparingly if you are to survive here.” When he’s satisfied with his work, he slowly moves to press his left hand to your chest, though he still doesn’t lift his gaze. “I caused this damage, so it’s only right that I fix it,” he continues as his palm alights like sunlight once more.

You can feel the glass dust clearing itself from your lungs, and though there’s still so many questions that you’re longing to ask, you’re too engulfed by the bliss of regaining the ability to breathe deep to grasp them. You hold your silence as he slowly reconstructs your body until you’re finally complete once again.

It’s a miracle that he managed to heal you so quickly, but... well, you suppose that he _is_ a holy man. You really shouldn’t be surprised. Honestly, you hardly are.

You both realise that you’re fully healed in the same moment, it seems, for you both then sigh softly in unison. At the same time that he leans back to sit gently on his heels, you sit up and then, instinctively, once again, hug your knees to your chest. It’s the closest thing to an embrace of comfort you’re sure you’ll ever feel again. Regardless of your reason, he doesn’t seem to mind.

You take a brief moment to wipe your face as clean from the blood and sweat as you possibly can. When you’re finished, and you look back over towards him, you can see that he’s simply running his hands over his limbs to heal and clean whatever small cuts dot his blond fur in red. His expression has remained unchanged nearly this entire time, but something in the way that he still looks solely at the ground has you convinced that he’s losing all hope.

You’re about to ask him why he’s letting you free when, again seemingly reading your mind, he answers before you can even voice the question: “I can tell that you are a stranger in this land, hunter,” he says, “so it is not your fault that you panicked.” He then lifts his eyes to the fog that obscures the entrance to this room, and when he inhales again, it seems shaky. “The fog... does something to hunters,” he continues. “It encourages them to kill. It has some sort of... alien voice to it, assuring you that whatever lies within it is an enemy. You simply fell victim to its culling call, as have so many before you... but it’s not your fault.” Still refusing to look towards you, he lowers his eyes back to the ground, then takes your burial blade from his side and hands the pieces back to you. “You are forgiven in the eyes of me and this cathedral, hunter,” he then says as, still bewildered, you take the weapon from him. “All I ask is that, as you continue your travels, you please have mercy upon...”

But his voice catches.

 _Now_ his expression has begun to change.

Now his face reads the purest, most hopeless mourning.

It’s then that you realise that the crown of thorns that once sat so delicately upon his head has pierced his flesh. One slim trickle of blood begins to trace itself down his cheek, and you’re surprised by how panicked your voice sounds when you say, “F-father, you’re bleeding.”

Your voice makes his eyes widen in seemingly uncharacteristic panic, then his hand quickly travels to the wetness that paints his temple. He touches the blood, then looks into his fingers, and you can see a shiver run up his spine at the sight. He immediately clenches his eyes shut, and then he’s suddenly crying again. “Cal...”

Unsure of what he means, you wait for him to continue speaking — or, at the very least, to heal himself — but he doesn’t.

You’re sure that you must have words you want to say, but all that you can do is stutter.

Once you think that you’ve gathered a sentence on your tongue, he forces himself to speak again. His volume increases ever so slightly as he speaks, seemingly with the sole intent of shushing you. “It’s _brother_ , hunter,” he says, strictly yet still somehow passively, obviously just trying to change the topic. “ _Brother_ , not _father_. Not...” He trembles again. He rubs the blood between his fingertips. He clenches his eyes shut... but he seemingly has no conclusion for that thought.

You’ve barely known him for more than a few minutes, but seeing him looking so thoroughly destroyed is breaking your heart and spirit. You’re not sure what to do... but you’re desperate for answers. “Who...” You pause. You’re not sure if you should ask. You’re not sure if he would even answer. You simply decide to reword. “If... I may ask, brother... who were you praying for?”

He refuses to move; just continues to hold his eyes shut and clenches his hands into fists

But you’re not as patient in waiting for his response as he was when waiting for yours. “It is... clear that they” — pause — “ _he_... must mean the world to you,” you say. “It was clear in the tone of your voice.”

You hear him sniffle softly, and something about the way he keeps his eyes glued shut has you half-convinced he’ll never speak again... but he eventually does. As if your words suddenly reminded him of a great task he needs to complete, he quickly wipes the blood from his cheek — without healing the wound from which it seeped — then grabs his staff from the floor and stands. “He is... very, _very_ dear to me, yes,” he admits, though sheepishly so, while you, panicked by his sudden movement, holster your blade to your back and stand to follow him. “I need to find him,” he continues, his voice suddenly frantic. “I need to find him before... something happens...”

He chokes on his last syllable.

That only worries you further.

But then, you start to think...

You gasp a bit in sudden realisation. “Brother, wait; what if... what if I were to help you?”

And this is the first time since the two of you have met that you’ve caught him _completely_ off-guard. He had begun to walk back towards the altar in a rush, but your words cause him to stop so quickly in his steps that he loses his balance for a second.

He whips around to look at you, though his expression is impossible for you to read. “What are you saying?” he asks, the words curt.

“I’m...” Well, honestly, you aren’t quite sure, and his now-completely-flipped demeanour is only making you _less_ certain. You really didn’t think this through... but something in your heart tells the rest of your mind what to say. You breathe deep, then stand strong, then meet his golden eyes; then, “Brother, I... I have no idea what my purpose here is,” you say. “I have no idea where to go. I... I don’t even know what force brought me here to _begin_ with, but...” He looks shocked. You _feel_ shocked. But you force yourself to take one strong step towards him, then continue speaking. “But... something about your voice led me to you, and...” — you chuckle a bit despite yourself — “well, I’m sure that _you_ know far more about fates and destinies than I do, but... but what if...” — you swallow hard — “what if... there was a reason for that? What if... there was a reason that we... met this way?”

He doesn’t necessarily look _happy_ with whatever the hell it is that you're saying, but his expression reads the closest thing to hope that you feel you’ll ever see in this cold, heartless world.

Yet still, he holds his silence.

And, again, you’re far too impatient to let that silence settle. “Do you, uh...” Pause. You take another step towards him. “Would you... allow me to help you with your search?”

Silence.

His eyes scan the room frantically.

Your entire being is aching to speak more, but...

He doesn’t necessarily say “yes,” but you see him swallow hard, then look towards the moon in contemplation, then, “I... have a small chamber beneath this sanctuary,” he says. “We can speak safely there, if you’ll follow me.”

 _Good enough, I suppose..._ Relieved to finally have a reason to exist in this world, you quickly make your way to his side, though you nearly have to maintain that same half-running pace to keep up with his tall, wide strides. He really does seem to be nearly twice your height...

You don’t realise you’re talking again until you’re hearing the words echo back to you: “May I have your name, brother?”

His steps slow at the sound, though he continues walking strong.

He refuses to look towards you as you continue forward.

For a split second, you worry that this question may be what breaks this shaky deal, but...

Eventually, he quickens his pace again until he reaches the crumbling altar. He grabs what looks like a tattered hunter’s cloak from upon it, scattering rose petals across the ground as he pulls it back and wraps it around his shoulders. “My name is Brother Nickolas Devant,” he says as he begins to lead you towards a doorway you didn’t even notice was hewn into the wall. “You may call me whatever title you wish.”

 _Nickolas Devant..._ You nod your head quickly as you commit the name to memory, though you’re certain that he can’t see the motions. Still feeling like you’re half-sprinting to keep up with his pace, you follow him through the altar’s hidden threshold, then keep close to his side as he leads you towards a spiralling staircase that descends into the blackness below.

You both keep your silence as you make your way down the corridor.

He never asks for your name in return.


	3. Signed and Sealed

Brother Nickolas’ chambers is somehow both exactly what you’d anticipated and not at all what you’d expected.

Down the decrepit spiral staircase, across a stone bridge that spans over black nothingness, between a few half-destroyed rooms and hallways, and finally through one of the (very small handful of) completely intact doors sits a — he wasn’t kidding when he said “small” — chamber just barely big enough for one person, though it looks as though it had, at one point, housed two. Either that, or Nickolas has some oddly dark and death-centric hobbies that you weren’t at all expecting...

As you enter through the tall but narrow threshold and step into the room, you find that there’s a small and simple bed to your right with the sheets messily upturned — as if whoever had last slept there had escaped in a rush — and a small nightstand which holds several half-melted candles, an unidentifiable spelljar, and a few trays of incense. The wall opposite of you is covered entirely by unevenly spaced bookshelves, half of the shelves holding what look like holy tomes, family photos, and simple trinkets, and the rest covered in black spellbooks, the skulls of small beasts, and various ominous-seeming runes and gemstones. There’s a small bureau to your lefthand side with its drawers cracked open to reveal a few changes of clothes — outfits mostly in schemes of black and red or blue and gold — and with its top covered with more candles, incense, dried rose petals, and a small basin of what you’re assuming must be holy water. The bureau also has an unsettling amount of trick weapons messily propped up against the side facing towards you, staining the furniture's wood an unnerving shade of rust with the dried blood of who-knows-what...

You had really hoped that all of the questions you’d been dying to ask would be answered upon making your way down here — or at _least_ upon entering this room — but... well, now you’ve found yourself with a dozen _more_ questions sitting eager on your tongue, and still no idea where or _how_ to start in asking them.

The worst part of it all is that, once you’ve had enough time to fully piece together all of the hints of information that you’ve been gathering for the past few minutes — details gathered from this room, and from Nickolas’ panic, and from the words of his prayer, and from the black caplet he clutches so desperately over his shoulders — you quickly come to realise that... maybe it isn’t such a good idea to openly voice what you’re beginning to assume must be a sad truth. Maybe it’s not something you should pry into. Maybe you shouldn’t be here at all...

But... well, you’re still nosy.

And also... you know, come to think of it, he never _did_ answer your question, so...

At first, you choose to play coy. “Nickolas,” you slowly begin to say, using his name rather than his title more on accident than by choice, though he thankfully doesn’t seem to mind, “may I ask again who it was that you were praying for? Or, uh... who it is that you need to find?”

Nickolas had placed his chime staff against the leftmost edge of the wall of shelves once he’d entered the room and has since been rummaging around through the trinkets and tomes that rest atop the shelves, but the sound of your voice seems to make his breath catch and his movement stagger. Or, well, it’s probably not the sound of your voice _itself_ , but rather the weight of your _words_. The tall Gelert stutters in his motions — fumbles with a rosary that he had just lifted off of one of the shelves — and shuts his eyes tight, as if trying to shield himself from the sight of what you’re saying. He takes a deep breath, then clutches the small red prayer beads he now holds close to his chest, turning to walk to the other side of the bookshelves — towards the bed.

Nickolas sighs before answering; then, “His name is Cathal Callahan,” the cleric says, quickly running his fingers through one of the thin trails of smoke that plume from the incense on the nightstand. You can’t tell if the gesture holds some sort of spiritual significance that you are unaware of, or if he’s simply trying to calm his nerves by toying with the pleasantly fragrant smoke... but regardless, you simply watch him move about the room, and listen close. “He is a hunter much like you,” Nickolas continues, “though I’m sure far more experienced — uh, no offense” — not like you’d actually taken any — “as well as he is” — he clears his throat nervously — “my... my husband, and best friend of many, _many_ years.”

You’re a bit ashamed of the fact that your immediate reaction upon hearing him say this is one of pride for guessing the nature of the two's relationship correctly rather than worry for Nickolas and his obvious heartache. You decide to not say anything in response, lest this fact become apparent in your tone.

Nickolas doesn’t seem to notice, though. Or, if he does, he doesn’t mind. _Or_ , maybe, you quickly realise, he _does_ mind, but you haven’t learned how to read his painfully stoic expression yet... Regardless again, though, he holds the rosary to his lips for a few seconds, whispering a silent prayer, then tucks the beads into the folds of the ties around his waist. He then pulls the black hunter’s caplet — _Cathal’s_ caplet, you’re assuming — tighter around his shoulders, breathes deep the scent of the fabric, then turns around to continue fiddling with this-and-that on the shelves. “I... I must admit,” Nickolas begins again, “I’m a bit embarrassed by how worried I am, since I definitely know full well just how skilled he is as a hunter, and how powerful he is with the arcane arts, but...” He pauses both in his words and his steps for a second, as if to gather his thoughts, then grabs a small, empty vial from one of the shelves and begins to make his way towards the bureau. “I just... had a vision of sorts,” he continues, his words suddenly seeming rushed, “wherein Cal had been, j-just...”

He stutters for a bit too long, and so seemingly gives up on his story.

You hate how obviously difficult it is for him to be talking about this.

But you’re terrible at keeping your mouth shut. “You, uh... needn’t tell me the whole story if it pains you this much, Nickolas,” you say softly, watching close as he pauses before the basin of water atop the bureau and turns slightly away from you, as if to hide his face in shame. “I trust you have your reasons.”

Silence.

You hold your breath worriedly.

But then, he continues despite you — perhaps even _to_ spite you — while filling the vial he holds with water as he speaks. “I had a vision wherein he finally succumbed to the blood of the beasts,” he says, the words quick and curt, and his voice catching audibly in his throat after he’s finished speaking the sentence. He doesn’t let the threat of cracking chords stop him from continuing his story, though. You’re not sure if this is because he’s now using your company as an opportunity to “vent” about all that’s been happening, or if he genuinely thinks that it’s important for you, as his current impromptu partner, to know. Nevertheless, though, you continue to listen to him carefully. “He’s spent so much of his life trying so desperately to find a cure for this plague and its madness,” Nickolas continues, “and I know that he’s close — I _know_ he is — but...”

He struggles again to find his composure, but you manage to stay silent this time, though you _do_ have to hold your lips still between your teeth to do so, and you find your eyes trailing away out of hate for seeing just how much pain this sweet man is obviously in...

But you look back when you hear him sigh, then watch as he corks the vial of holy water and presses it quickly to his lips as blessing. “Cal can be reckless as hellfire,” Nickolas then says, snorting out some sort of laugh with the words, then tucking the holy water beside his rosary and walking around the bureau to kneel beside the row of weapons. He carefully shifts all the well-used hunter tools around until he pulls out a small saw spear, then stands once again. “I’ve spent so many nights of my life awake worrying that, if the beasts out there don’t destroy him as he continues his search, that... that he will destroy _himself_ , you know,” Nickolas says, placing the weapon gently down on the bureau, then gripping the furniture’s edge and leaning his weight onto his palms. “It’s... it’s not that I don’t _believe_ in him, you understand, but I just...” He sighs. “I just... worry, you know. It’s hard not to. When you’re, just...” Another sigh. His voice then hushes to a whisper. “When... when you’ve loved someone as long as I have him, you just... can’t stop thinking about them,” he says. “Especially when they’re... gone...”

He trembles slightly with that last word, and though he’s turned away and you can’t see his face, you just _know_ that he must’ve started crying again... and it kills you.

Nervous as hell, and not wanting to accidentally interrupt this moment of silence, nor disturb whatever thoughts may be currently present in the cleric’s mind, you allow your eyes to travel around the room for a few seconds more, further taking in its contents’ many intricate details, just attempting to distract yourself until Nickolas continues speaking.

And he eventually — thankfully — does. Despite the fact that his default nature is obviously one of reticence, it's becoming increasingly obvious that the subject of his love is something that could keep his mind and mouth occupied for hours. “He grew worried once the blood moon rose,” Nickolas begins to explain again, “and he _insisted_ that he needed to check to make sure none of the cathedral’s remaining clerics had succumbed to the plague like so many before us have.” His voice quavers slightly as he speaks. All of your attention is immediately back on him. “I... I just had this _feeling_ that this blood moon was going to be different,” he continues. “I _knew_ it would be. I could _feel_ it. And... and I think that _he_ knew it too, but he just...” He shakes his head slightly. “He’s just... stubborn, sometimes.” Pause. He huffs lightly. “ _All_ the time, actually...”

You cross your arms as Nickolas pauses again, simply trying to offer yourself some sort of comfort since the Gelert’s desperate and hopeless tone is really starting to pick away at your already crumbling resolve. You try your best to keep your focus on Nickolas — on his trembling shoulders, and his deep breathing, and his lowered head, and his nails digging into the bureau’s already scratched surface — but your eyes are longing to wander to anywhere else but him. He just... looks like the pure embodiment of misery in this moment. You want to stay optimistic — truly, you do — but the tall blond’s body language alone is making you want to give up before you’ve even begun...

Nickolas takes another deep, shaky breath, then... well, oddly enough, the next thing that he does is chuckle a bit to himself — very slightly, somewhat darkly — then look up towards the ceiling. “And he just _had_ to make this _stupid_ joke before he left...” Nickolas gripes, shaking his head again as his eyes trail across the ceiling’s many cracks and crumbling patches. He then switches his voice to what you can only assume must be a lovingly mocking mimic of his husband’s — a bit romantic, a bit pretentious, _drowning_ in sarcasm, and with just the slightest hint of an accent you can’t quite place — and says, “ ‘ _If I’m not back by midnight, my dear, then just assume that I’m dead. Oh, and don’t write anything silly on my headstone.’_ ”

You hate how much you want to laugh at the quote, but you manage to suppress your reflex so that the only sign of your amusement is just the tiniest hint of a smirk. It feels like the emptiest expression you’ve ever made.

Nickolas matches the hollow smile for a few short seconds, obviously enjoying the memory despite all that’s happened afterwards; but then, he lowers his head again, once more needing to clench his eyes tightly shut to keep himself from falling apart.

His inhale is shaky; then, “That was over two days ago,” Nickolas says darkly.

You feel the words like a kick in the chest.

Honestly, you’re genuinely surprised by just how attached you feel to this man you’ve just met — this man whom you’d just tried to kill, and who had just nearly killed _you_. More than that, though, you’re _bewildered_ by how genuinely worried about his husband — a man that you haven’t even _seen_  before — you are as well. There’s just... something so honest about Nickolas’ words, you suppose. Something so candid within his obvious love. Something so desperate in the tone of his voice. Something... that’s making you want to do anything and everything you can to help.

You wait for a long, long while for Nickolas to continue speaking, loathing the fact that the most present question in your mind right now is, _Are you sure you aren’t too late?_

But, thankfully — or... well, maybe not, depending on how you look at it — Nickolas does his little possibly-reading-your-mind trick again before you accidentally let that dark question slip. “I _know_ he is alive,” Nickolas says sternly. “I know it for a _fact_. I would... I would be able to tell if he were not. I would be _told_ if he were not. I would _feel_ it. I _know_ I would.”

You genuinely can’t tell if Nickolas’ changing pitch and volume is indicative of hope or mania; but, whatever it is, at least it sounds a bit brighter... you think. “I can still find him,” Nickolas continues. “I can. I _know_ I can. There’s still definitely time. I just...” Pause. He angles his head just the slightest bit over his shoulder, acknowledging you though you’re completely out of his line of sight. “ _We_ ,” he slowly corrects, “just... just need to hurry.”

You give a few only half-certain nods of your head in response to the words, then clear your throat of the knot you didn’t even realise had formed there while you were listening. “Do you know where to begin?” you ask, eager to ease this room of the haze of hopelessness and find the missing hunter before it’s too late.

Nickolas takes a few more seconds to gather his thoughts, then straightens his posture a bit, probably trying to draw a sense of strength from within with the motion. He looks towards the ceiling at the rightmost corner of the room from where you now stand, keeping his gaze focused intently there, as if looking straight through all that rests above you and towards some destination in the world outside. “There’s an abandoned cathedral not too terribly far from here,” Nickolas begins to explain, finally loosening his grip on the bureau's edge, then standing straight and flexing the ache from his tensed-for-too-long fingers. “If it was Cal's honest intent to find the other clerics, he would be somewhere around there,” he says. “I, ah... I’ll be able to tell more confidently where within that cathedral’s ward he may be once we are near the area.”

You nod again, completely out of reflexive habit this time since you know that there’s no way Nickolas could see your motions. “And... what does he look like?” you ask, figuring that that's probably an important thing for you to know.

Nickolas’ gaze remains ever-fixed on the same corner of the ceiling — on the abandoned cathedral in the distance up above, you suppose — though his hands slowly travel to the edges of the black garment that still rests draped over his shoulders.

He pulls the heavy, tattered fabric closer around him, then holds his silence for a long while, as if trying to think of the perfect explanation.

Finally, he snorts a bit in response. “He looks like a jackass,” he mumbles, shaking his head and smiling ever so slightly.

This time, you allow yourself to let a small laugh slip.

Nickolas sighs again, this time sounding a bit relieved. Only now does he answer genuinely. “He, um... he is also a Gelert, with thick black hair, and a black goatee, and bright yellow eyes, and... and soft fur that is always so pleasantly cool to the touch...”

Already you can hear Nickolas’ voice softening as he considers all of his husband’s features. It would be cute, you suppose, to watch his entire everything slowly melting into this puddle of love if the context of this conversation wasn’t so cruel. “He’s coloured Christmas," Nickolas continues, "though he never allows his antlers to grow. He says they’re too 'uncomfortable,' especially since I, ah... may or may not refuse to stop stroking their velvet...” You snicker lightly again as Nickolas continues speaking. “He, um... he was wearing black hunter’s garb much like your own when he left here, and he carries on him a blade of mercy, though he tends to use his self-forged arcane weaponry more than anything...” His words then dissolve into pure fawning. “He has a strong build, very handsome, very virile, _terribly_ snarky aura, always with this damned shit-eating grin on his face...” Pause. His conclusion is whispered so softly that you can hardly hear it: “He’s just... perfect. In every way.”

Nickolas hasn’t stopped smiling since he'd started to answer this particular question. Likewise, you _would_ probably be smiling at his dorky expression if you weren’t so crushed between the obvious love in the cleric’s eyes and the worry for this hunter’s safety that’s already found a seemingly permanent home in your gut. “Sounds like quite the charmer,” you decide to joke, seeing as Nickolas obviously loves thinking about his husband’s charm, and the Gelert's smile is helping to settle some of the nervousness that’s still churning in your stomach.

You’re glad that your comment makes the tall blond smile just the tiniest bit brighter. He gives a gentle roll of his eyes. “Yeah, he likes to think so,” he says, adding a sighed “as well as I” under his breath as he turns his head away.

The air has finally settled into a sort of moot understanding of what needs to be done, the heartache from before being silenced ever so slightly by the lingering overtones of Nickolas’ affection. You almost wish that you could simply stay here forever now — here, in this calm and warm atmosphere — but... well, that would only make things worse. _Waiting_ would only make things worse. Despite the fact that your dreadfully dark conversation has somehow taken a softer turn, you’re still eager, and worried, and anxious, and just a giant swirling disaster of emotions in this moment. Most of all, though, now you’re feeling...

Now you’re feeling bit panicked. “Nickolas, you’re bleeding again.”

Your words change the mood in the room so suddenly and drastically, it’s almost as if half the candles were just extinguished. Your immediate reflex is to throw your hands over your mouth in an almost childlike sort of surprise and regret when the comment makes Nickolas’ eyes widen in worried shock, as well as causes all signs of smiles to disappear completely from his pale features. His breath catches again as he desperately runs his fingers across his cheeks and temples until he touches the spot where another slim trickle of crimson has begun to stain his blond fur. “No, no, no...”

You’re worried by the fact that Nickolas’ only reaction, once again, is just to gently rub the blood between his fingers a few times, as if to focus on its texture, then simply wipe the stain from his cheek rather than heal the wound. Your panic causes your mouth to start running before you have the time to realise what thoughts are in your head: “Surely it wouldn’t be a sin for you to remove your crown, right, Nickolas?” you ask, wondering why the clerics of this bizarre land even wear those thorned crowns to begin with, since you can only assume that the reason Nickolas would don such a thing is because it is part of the cathedral’s traditional garb.

You’re even _more_ worried by the fact that Nickolas’ expression then shifts to one of genuine frustration, which you honestly didn't even think was possible for him. You don’t lower your hands as he glances towards you, then looks away quickly. “That’s not why I wear it,” he says, his tone suddenly dark as pitch as he turns his focus down to the saw spear he had placed on the bureau a few long minutes ago. You want to ask for clarification, since his words only confuse you further, but he offers the answer to your question before you even ask it: “This crown is the only tie that I still have to him,” Nickolas explains, his voice suddenly quavering again. “It’s how I know if he’s... in pain. It... it links us. Or, it links _me_ , at least. To his struggles, and his... injuries." He swallows hard. "Do you understand?”

 _A crown that shows signs of another’s injury by drawing the wearer’s blood...?_ You’ve never heard of such a silly thing, and you are _certain_ that there _must_ be another, less painful method of knowing if one’s loved one is hurt, but...

Well, this strange land seems to have some bizarre obsession with and connection to blood, you suppose. Upon considering the concept further, it _does_ makes sense that the easiest way to keep track of another’s life or injuries in this land would be through blood magic. But still, you can't stand seeing Nickolas in pain... it just worries you so, so much...

And your worry only intensifies when you see him begin to bleed even more.

You don’t say anything in reaction this time, though. Half because you don’t want to upset Nickolas further, and half because his hand travels to his cheek before you have the opportunity to say anything at all. He wipes the blood from his fur without acknowledging it, as if to pretend that it isn’t there at all.

You finally lower your hands from your mouth as Nickolas begins to pat at the folds of cloth where he’d tucked away his rosary and holy water, as if checking to make sure they’re still there, then grabs the saw spear off of the bureau and quickly makes his way over to you, handing you the weapon with a panicked look in his eyes. “Something serrated, in case there are beasts about,” he says sternly, then quickly makes his way across the room to the wall against which he’d rested his chime staff.

A bit taken aback, you look down at the spear in your hands, then towards the other hunter tools beside where Nickolas had stood just moments ago, eyeing another spear and a saw cleaver that still sit nestled among the blades and pistols. “Shouldn’t you take one as well, then?” you ask, raising your eyes back towards the blond Gelert as you tuck the spear securely beside your collapsed burial blade.

Nickolas answers your question in a bit of a roundabout way: grabs his staff, spins around quickly, then slams the spear-tipped gold against the ground, making the chimes all clatter and a loud _clang!_ to ring clear throughout the room. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbles as he makes his way back towards you.

You decide to accept this as a perfectly valid answer.

Plus, even if you _didn’t_ believe him, he’s already made his way past you and through the threshold before you have time to even think of anything more that you may want to say.

Your eyes glance over all of the mismatched trinkets that lay strewn about the sparse furniture in this room one last time, then you quickly follow the cleric out the doorway and through the halls, the weight of just how much life and love is at stake breathing heavily down your neck.


End file.
